The Dictionary of Lost Words(58)

When I returned, there was another visitor.

‘Esme, this is Mrs Brooks.’

Mrs Brooks stood up to greet me. She barely came to my shoulder.

‘Don’t you dare call me Mrs Brooks,’ she said, holding out her hand. ‘I only answer to Sarah. I’m Philip’s wife and chauffer.’

Her grip was firm and her shake efficient. I suspected there was nothing small about her character.

‘It’s true,’ said Mr Brooks. ‘My wife has learned to drive and I have not. Feel free to be amused – most of our friends are – but it is an arrangement that suits us quite well.’ He looked at Sarah. ‘I do not fit easily behind the steering wheel, do I, dear?’

‘You do not fit easily anywhere, Philip,’ Sarah said, laughing. ‘And the motorcar was not made for my stature either, but how I love it.’

Another pot of tea was drained, and barely a crumb of cake remained on the plate when Sarah insisted it was time to go.

‘I must deliver these gentlemen to their homes before dark,’ she said.

We all rose. But as each gentleman bade Beth farewell, she’d engage him in some small aside. After ten minutes Sarah was forced to clap her hands like a school mistress to get them to follow her out the door.



The sisters enjoyed hosting afternoon teas, and over the next month I became acquainted with more people than I had in all my years at the Scriptorium. Mr Shaw-Smith was never seen again, but Professor Chisholm was a frequent caller.

‘He magically appears on our doorstep whenever Mrs Travis bakes her Madeira,’ whispered Beth one day. ‘It’s extraordinary, really.’

Philip Brooks joined him once, and on another occasion Philip and Sarah came alone. Mrs Brooks was quite plain to look at, and when she spoke she was often blunt. I suspected her intellect paled against those of the sisters, but she had a way of saying things that somehow highlighted the truth. She reminded me of Tilda.

When my belly became too difficult to hide, I began organising outings to coincide with afternoon teas. At first it was to Victoria Park or the Baths, and when it rained I would shelter in the Abbey and listen to the choir boys practising. But Ditte soon put a stop to this.

‘You have an historian’s aptitude for investigation, Esme,’ she said one evening over dinner. ‘Rather than having you wander aimlessly around Victoria Park tomorrow, I’d like you to visit the archives at Guildhall.’

‘Edith, don’t forget the ring,’ said Beth, taking another slice of beef and drowning it in gravy.

Ditte took off the gold band that she wore on her little finger and gave it to me. I knew what it was meant to do, so I slipped it on. The fit was perfect.

‘I’ve never been able to wear it on that finger,’ said Ditte.

‘You’ve never wanted to,’ said Beth. ‘But it suits Esme.’



The next time the sisters had visitors I was in London, searching the archives of the British Museum and spending a few days with Da. The time after that I was in Cambridge, staying with a sympathetic friend of Beth’s who never once enquired after my husband.

I took my research seriously, and my skill grew with my belly. Rather than restricting me, Ditte had given me a kind of freedom. She’d paved the way with letters of introduction. She wrote that I was her niece and gave me her last name. She was careful not to associate me with the Scriptorium. Wherever I went, I was expected – my entry to archives and reading rooms was automatic; the documents I needed were organised in advance and waiting for me to scrutinise.

At first, I was sure I convinced no one. I stumbled around and apologised too much, and I was far too grateful when admittance was given. At the entrance to the Old Schools reading room at Cambridge, I saw an attendant double-check Ditte’s letter, and my heart ached at the thought I might be expelled before I’d had the chance to breathe in that heady combination of aged stone, leather and wood. When he noticed the band of gold on my hand, the belly beneath it became of little consequence. He let me pass, and I stood on the threshold a moment too long.

‘Are you alright, madam?’ the attendant asked.

‘I could not be better,’ I said.

I made my way with steady steps towards a table at the far end of the room. The wooden floor announced me to the bent heads and absorbed readers; the architects of that great room had not considered the clip-clop of a lady’s shoe. I acknowledged the curiosity of every gentleman scholar with a straightening of my aching back and a curt nod of my head. By the time I sat down, I was exhausted from the effort.

I never thought anywhere could rival Oxford for its history and beauty, but every time I ventured out on my own I was forced to reflect on how little I knew. Oxford and the Scriptorium had always been enough. Our visits to family in Scotland had always seemed a little too long, and the one time I’d been away on my own had made me wary of ever leaving again. Despite myself, I began to enjoy this new adventure – though the reason for it was becoming harder to ignore.

The sisters were not only complicit in my predicament, but seemed to delight in it. At breakfast they would quiz me about the quality of my sleep, about my appetite and desire for strange foods (none, which was a particular disappointment for Beth). My weight and sleeping patterns were recorded in a small notebook, and one day Beth asked, with uncharacteristic shyness, if I would allow her to see my body naked.